I recline in a welcoming leather seat
At Phoenix's Sky Harbor, Terminal 1, Gate 3.
My flight is delayed, again.
But I shall stand the fleet.
I shake my head at the cheesy wordplay; go figure!
I tear myself from my read to take in
The noisy sights around me.
A few co-hobbyists do the same,
Others choose to ignore the din.
The line by Gate 2 is growing fast now
For a flight to Denver delayed by a greater degree than mine.
I venture to let the makers of that line enthuse me,
Each different from the other in every way,
And all quite eager to board.
There are the patient by nature and the patient by choice.
A talkative yuppie in love with her voice,
A blissful custodian of wandering eyes,
A self-engaged preener, a gum chewing scribe,
A hasty to finish his burger and fries,
An exhausted merchant tapping his wares,
The lost in chatter, the longing to rest,
All masters of vacant stares.
And these would be broad categories at best.
As I meander out of my rhymelet,
I twitch my lip in hosting the thought
That each linemaker is at his own vantage point,
And I am just a mentionable in her verse,
Whatever the rendering be.
But I'm not going to Denver.
My thoughts are with my family now;
I wonder if the cactus jelly and prickly pear syrup